


Recovery

by Luthienberen



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films)
Genre: Angst (minor), Case fic (light), First Time, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:58:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: When Holmes is taken ill on his latest case Watson whisks him away to an old soldier friend of his, a Colonel Dafydd Jones. On a quiet little estate in Wales both men come to a new understanding.





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts).



> _iwantthatcoat_ noted a love for blending ACD canon stories set in other universes. So, since the Rathbone films were an option I have done my best to blend an ACD story into a Rathbone setting. It is a bit light on the case fic as I am new to case fic, and focuses more on Holmes and Watson’s relationship. I hope this is acceptable!
> 
> The inspiration comes from the short story “The Reigate Puzzle” (with a dash of retirement appearing on the horizon) and is absorbed into the Rathbone era in true style.  
> -

The war had not long ended when the health of my dear friend Mr Sherlock Holmes deteriorated at last under the pressure of a quick succession of cases. I had numerous times implored him to rest and take a holiday, but inevitably some urgent situation would arise and only Holmes could delve into the seemingly unsolvable mysteries and reveal all.

Of course, during the most recent conflict of our times, everyone must do their duty and I am a patriotic man. After all, I served long ago in the Great War, but even so Holmes is my friend and even the most country loving and faithful to the King man, will fret over the health of his companion when said friend is at the constant beck and call of his brother Mycroft.

Holmes is a genius, logical, thirsty for a case worthy of his distinction and determined to see justice done (even if said justice does not always serve the letter of the law). Yet, even a consulting detective of Mr Holmes’ calibre requires rest…even if the man himself does not believe so.

So, it was without surprise that eventually my indomitable friend finally collapsed under the terrible strain.

The year was 1947, a mere two years after the war. During those bleak years Holmes had been terribly busy and I have been honoured to accompany him on some of his cases, where my occasional slip would not jeopardise the outcome.

Perhaps one day I will be able to share even a few of these highly important and secretive adventures with the public, when those involved have either passed on or are in positions where the revelation of such forays into Occupied Europe will not put their identities and lives at risk.

This account I write is, while not so dangerous for the nation, is of a similarly secretive nature. The only people it will endanger I am afraid are Holmes, another good friend of mine and myself.

As such, I write this currently only for my eyes and possibly Holmes. It may be that one day the contents will no longer be of a criminal nature worthy of prosecution, but if so, that day I fear will not be soon.

I write for only a small audience because I must pour my emotions out on paper to allow my muddled thoughts and emotions to settle. I can hardly believe that what happened _did_ happen, and despite potential censure from Holmes I shall write and then either store in our security box in Cox & Co. or destroy the offending papers.

Returning to that fateful day, I had just settled down with a newspaper in our rooms in Baker Street when a telegram arrived for me, borne by our faithful landlady.

“Dr Watson!” cried Mrs Hudson, panting as she entered our rooms.

“What is the matter Mrs Hudson?”

I rose with a struggle from my armchair, for my leg was paining me greatly. I fear rheumatism has set in after one too many sojourns into cold nights and icy rain.

“An urgent telegram from Whitehall! Oh, you don’t think something has happened to Mr Holmes?”

“Of course not! Why, who could stop Holmes?” Despite my assurances I anxiously tore open the envelope and devoured the contents.

It was from Mycroft, I recognised the code he and Holmes had developed, and had taught me. Roughly translated it ran:

 

_Sherlock. Ill. Come at once._

 

Holmes was ill! Alarmed and feeling helpless for I did not know where Holmes truly was or the identity of his illness, I focused instead on the last part of the message _“Come at once”_.

Really, must both brothers demand I come at once?

“Doctor?”

Roused from my stupor I met Mrs Hudson’s worried expression.

“Yes Mrs Hudson?”

“Is Mr Holmes in danger?”

“I hope not Mrs Hudson, but I must leave immediately.”

The good lady nodded and instantly left to call me a taxi. I made quick work of packing a small bag and ensuring my old, trusty Gladstone was waiting beside my hat, coat and walking stick. Fortunately, for a retired doctor I appear to always be on call so consequently, my Gladstone is well stocked and with the latest paraphernalia necessary for a doctor these days.

Holmes was always amused by my ‘retirement’, even when he was the cause of my bag requiring constant stocking.

 _No_. I would not think of Holmes in the past tense. Yet fears circled my brain and I fumbled with my things as I now donned my coat and hat and gripped my walking stick in my right hand. My travel bag was held securely in my free hand as I made my way down the stairs and to the front door.

Mrs Hudson met me at the bottom.

“A taxi is waiting for you outside.”

“Very good Mrs Hudson, I shall write when I know something.”

“Oh thank you Doctor and do take care of yourself.”

“I shall. Good day.”

Limping out, I took my taxi and stared unseeingly out of the windows as it drove me to Whitehall.

The destruction of the War flitted by and what I did glimpse through my dark thoughts added to my depression. Much had been re-built, but there were still buildings that needed fixing and pavements that required better repaving than had been granted.

Here and there construction continued as fast as possible with what money could be spared. I attempted to wrestle my thoughts from black despair. Mycroft had indicated Holmes was ill, not dying, so everything would be fine.

My heart did not believe me so I turned from the window as we neared our destination to try and  gather my composure.

“We’re here sir,” remarked the taxi driver rather curtly I thought.

Swallowing my annoyance, I paid the man, mumbled thanks and exited with my bags. I was just gathering my legs under me when I heard my name called. Glancing up I saw a welcome figure.

“Miss Featherby! How delightful. What are you doing here?”

The young lady, whom Holmes and I had met when our service to the country took us onto the seas, had recently exited from the Women’s Royal Naval Service (WRNS). The occasion was for a mission involving a Polish resistance fighter and certain plans which inconvenienced the Nazis quite badly. Thrilling, if exhausting stuff.

“Oh, Mr Holmes found me a wonderful position with his brother. Mr Mycroft Holmes asked me to wait for you.”

“The devil he did. Oh, pardon me.”

Miss Featherby laughed. “I am no fainting violet Dr Watson.”

“Still, manners.” I shook my head and kissed her hand, for I am old gentleman at heart.

Miss Featherby smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling. She took my arm and led me away from the main entrance to Whitehall to a discreet side door, which we passed through with no trouble. Miss Featherby was professional and smoothly directed the soldiers to let me pass and soon we were walking down a corridor full of the sound of murmured conversations from half-open doors, the clack of the typewriter and the odd high-pitched voice from a wireless.

Yet I couldn’t settle and to prevent my spirits from sinking again, I struggled for conversation.

“Holmes knew what he was doing suggesting his brother employ you. You were magnificent during those events so long ago.”

My companion nodded. “You were too, Doctor.”

“Oh, I know I blunder and mumble too much to have been of _that_ much use my young lady.”

“Really? Mr Holmes certainly doesn’t believe so. Why he insisted you be present. He ‘couldn’t do without his Boswell’, he said.”

“Holmes is too kind.”

Miss Featherby just smiled and maintained a silence that in a woman I have noticed, indicated she knows what she is talking about and that eventually the other person will do too. Unlike Holmes, I know when to accept such a fate and so I said nothing until she left me outside a closed door.

“The _other_ Mr Holmes awaits within.”

“Thank you and good luck with your career Miss Featherby.”

“Thank you and I wish you well also Doctor.”

She departed, all coolness and grace, so I inhaled deeply and entered.

The room I entered was richly furnished, old oak furniture, glazed and beautiful, situated neatly for the use of its occupants. Behind a large magnificent desk sat an even larger man.

Where Sherlock Holmes was tall and slim, Mycroft Holmes was tall and fleshier from a life of indulging in good food and wine. The rationing of the war and the rationing we endure now has diminished him somewhat in stature, but he still maintained a girth that was impressive.

Cool eyes assessed me with an intelligence that was similar to Holmes. Yet with Holmes such a gaze is dulled by the affection he possesses for me, while Mycroft’s is full of disdain. He never understood why Holmes and I were friends.

Sometimes I am not sure myself, but I admire, care and love Holmes too deeply to question his affection too closely.

“I received your telegram Mycroft and came as fast possible. Is Holmes very ill? Please tell me it isn’t life-threatening.”

I was babbling but couldn’t stop myself.

Mycroft gestured for me to sit so I did, thankful for the weight off my leg.

Once seated, I grasped my cane tightly, my bags at my feet. My throat was tight and chest fluttering with anxiety.

Mycroft poured two brandies, one which he handed to me. I sipped at it, unable to take more until I knew more.

“My brother,” said Mycroft slowly, “has completed his task for the Government. Yet I fear the strain has been too much and he now is lying ill in a hotel in France.”

“Holmes has been ridiculously busy these last few years and months. He needs to rest.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Some courage sparked in me, forcing words from my dry throat.

“I am loyal Mycroft, but Holmes doesn’t listen to his body, you know this.”

“I do Dr Watson, which is why I have summoned you here, not only so you can fetch my brother home, but to say that there will be no more requests from the British Government. My brother has done his duty and other agents can take up the mantle. The world is changing and I do care for Sherlock. It is time he rested from his labours.”

Relief suffused me and I managed to take a gulp of the brandy.

“Currently, my brother is ill, but I do not believe it to be life-threatening. I have booked passage for you on a light plane which will bring you close to his location. Once you have assessed the situation, telegram me in the code I used and I will arrange your return.”

I nodded in profound thanks and started saying so, but my tongue betrayed me once.

“This is good of you, I mean thank you. I will go at once. I…”

All this and in a voice too quiet to be heard. My brain and tongue do not always match and it grows worse as I realise my emotions running away. I mumbled to a halt and Mycroft politely ignored my embarrassment and sent me on my way with a young fellow, dressed plainly, but with the gait of a military man.

* * *

In this fashion I was sitting beside Holmes’ bedside within twelve hours and reassuring myself that it was merely nervous exhaustion and not tuberculosis or influenza, or some dreaded infection against which penicillin was helpless.

Gently I picked up my friend’s wrist and felt his pulse for the third time in an hour.

“Watson old fellow, I am sorry to frighten you.”

Holmes’ pallid face gazed up at me, his normally clear grey eyes now cloudy like a murky pool.

“I am just glad your brother sent me to you Holmes. I wish you wouldn’t take on so many cases. This has been too much for you.”

Holmes smiled and when I released his wrist he clasped my hand briefly. My stomach fluttered.

“The work was vital my dear boy. Now one less fiend is free to plague our nation and feed secrets to the new threat.”

“Even so, Holmes, I wish I could have been with you.”

“I missed my faithful Watson,” murmured Holmes. “Indeed I could have used you when trying to discover which medicine this fiend fed his poor wife to keep her silent. Unfortunately, I had to operate alone.”

“Another doctor surely could have helped?”

“When I have you Watson?” Holmes chuckled weakly. “It is not the same.”

I flushed at Holmes’ teasing, for while I love knowing that Holmes appreciates my company and our friendship, it has lately caused me great pain and fear.

My love and affection for him had transformed gradually from pure friendship to a romantic love, one society deems only suitable between men and women.

I was no stranger to such affections, for my desires ran both ways, even if I preferred men. Yet I knew how perilous such desires – and worse, love – were in this society. Imprisonment was likely, but in our case such a revelation would destroy Holmes’ reputation and every shred of regard he held for me.

To be the cause of Holmes’ disgrace was more than I could bear – imprisonment was nothing if it left Holmes in ruins. So, since we met and became a partnership I had buried any sympathies I bore for men, and instead, carefully directed a comment or two towards women in his presence.

It had been easier than I feared for Holmes was disinterested in such romantic trifles. Thus I sank into a rewarding friendship with one of the greatest minds and wisest men in Britain, who could also show a desire for friendship with his odd bumbling companion.

Therefore, Holmes’ words left me warm with painful happiness and regard and stuttering nonsense, before I managed to come to the heart of the matter.

“Whatever the reasons I couldn’t accompany you Holmes, you must realise that this nervous exhaustion is the result of more than this one adventure. You have been too hard on yourself for a very long time. I wish you would listen and take a holiday.”

“We have been on holidays,” protested Holmes.

“Yes, I believe one attempt was to Scotland, but instead we headed to Algiers escorting a prince to safety. After that, there was the time we tried going to Brighton and instead were pursing a missing dinosaur skeleton, stolen to aid in some bizarre magical ritual. Oh and-” 

“Stop Watson! You have defeated me. Very well, where shall we go?”

I thought for a moment as I stirred a sleeping draught into water and hit upon a solution Holmes might agree to.

“Wales! South Wales to be precise. An old friend of mine, Colonel Jones from the Great War, now resides in a little village in that beautiful land.”

Holmes frowned and accepted the glass. “What of his wife and family?”

“He is a bachelor like us,” well like me, but there was no need to say so, “and his closest relation is a nephew in Talbot Green, some miles distant. It is a quiet picturesque place and while there is little crime, I can assure you there is much history to visit – even ones associated with myth and fairy tales if you wish.”

“Myth and fairy tales can be illuminating in what they say of man, so I suppose I shall manage to explore these locations for wont of a case. Very well Watson. I shall listen to my good friend and doctor. Will Colonel Jones accept us?”

“Yes, he wrote not long ago, inviting both you and I to come visit.”

“Then write away Watson and I will try to be a good patient.” To express this, Holmes drank his draught without complaint though he grimaced at the taste.

I snorted and accepted the now empty glass back. “Then sleep, there’s a good fellow. I will tidy these telegrams, papers and telephone messages away so none can tempt you to solve a case from bed.”

Holmes grinned and closed his eyes. “Don’t worry Watson, soon we will be at your friend’s house and no one will trouble us there.”

I wished it could be so, but despite my doubts I went to write a message to my old friend and a telegram to Mycroft detailing our plans.

* * *

Three days later Holmes and I were settling into the home of my old friend Colonel Dafydd Jones. Holmes had thankfully taken well to the colonel and we spent the evening of our first arrival with Holmes stretched out on the sofa in the colonel’s small private sitting room.

As the evening progressed, Jones and I slowly re-connected and talk came around to how we met, with a curious Holmes listening avidly. He had his pipe, which I had permitted him, and was reclined on the couch. A few blankets were tucked over and around him to ensure that he was warm, for there was a chill in the spring air.

“We met in a hospital tent a few miles behind the lines,” said the Colonel, as he sipped a glass of wine, lounging in his armchair. I sat in another armchair that had been pushed to be beside Holmes.

I tended a pipe of my own, as I recalled those devilish days in the trenches tending men or in the tents fighting to put torn flesh together, fix broken bones or save lungs destroyed by gas. Terrible business. The dreams – nightmares – haunt me still.

The pressure of Holmes’ hand on my knee temporarily banished the ghouls and I smiled cheerfully at Holmes who was not taken in for an instant. He removed his hand, but kept an eye on me.

Before I could feel guilty for my sick friend caring for me, Jones continued.

“I had gone over the top with the rest of my command and met a few Hun bullets unfortunately meant for me. Fortunately, however, they missed my vital organs yet penetrated my leg, shoulder and grazed my side.”

“Watson never talks about the war,” murmured Holmes without censure.

“The Great War was full of honour, bravery, even fun and laughter at times, whilst many strove to help each other,” I replied quietly, “It was also full of agony, loss and grief. I just pushed it behind me when I was invalided out and the War ended.”

Holmes nodded in understanding. Colonel Jones was sympathetic, but pressed on to try and alleviate the mood.

“Watson ended up in the same hospital tent as I as a patient because he was shot in the leg when attempting to retrieve wounded men from No Man’s Land.”

Holmes smiled, “My brave Watson.”

Warmth spread through me at Holmes’ praise, but I was afraid when I saw Jones looking in understanding at me. Mumbling it was what anyone would have done, I hoped Jones would continue and he mercifully did.

“Well, we were set side by side and once the good doctor here had recovered from a fever, he began instantly interfering with the nurses and doctors.”

“In what way?”

Jones laughed, the terrible man.

“He was dreadfully cheerful. Despite his injury, the cold in the tent and the pain he must have been in, Captain Watson would try to sit up and would chatter about any old thing. Anything he could do to cheer the spirits of all of us: patients, nurses and doctors. My spirits soared in Watson’s presence…don’t blush so Watson. You were an angel when I – we – needed one.”

Holmes looked at me and I couldn’t read his expression. A gleam was in his eyes that was…amusement I think, but something else too, as if Jones had said something he did not like. Jones suddenly put aside his glass and leant forward, capturing Holmes’ attention and breaking our odd exchange.

“He was a breath of fresh air. His indomitable fortitude and encouragement of everyone was succour to my wounded soul and flesh. No matter the dark days Watson had, he would recover and have another kind word for patients or the overworked staff personnel. Then, oh then, one day when there were no doctors as they had been called out, Watson clambered out of bed, gripped an old stick and started limping about tending to the ill.”

Holmes again glanced at me, now with clear pride and joy blazing in his eyes and…complete lack of surprise. Bewildered and sweating with happiness at my friend’s affection, yet also trembling in horror should my reactions seem more than they should be, I ducked my head.

“Gave me a fright and the nurses too. By the time they reached him, Watson had seen to three patients, written prescriptions and was leaning on another invalid who was helping him walk, while I tried keeping notes from my bed.”

Holmes laughed deeply and long and my heart leapt.

“You sound stronger already Holmes!” I cried forgetting myself.

“All down to you my dear Watson,” said he, face now slightly flushed. “Who couldn’t be revived as Colonel Jones once was, by tales of your courage and determination? But these are no surprise to me, I am merely delighted to have conclusive proof of what a kind-hearted gentle man you are and have always been.”

I will be discovered if Holmes kept pronouncing such sentiments, but my old friend came to my rescue by rising and offering a cup of tea to Holmes. Jones blocked Holmes from view as he did so, allowing me to force air into my constricted lungs and regain my equilibrium.

He moved away only once I spoke. “Jones makes it sound as if I did more than could be expected. I am – was – a doctor. I had to help.”

“Injured?” commented Holmes, “I believe the nurses thought differently?”

“They did,” confirmed Jones, who pressed my shoulder and looked fondly upon me. I couldn’t help but smile in gratefulness. Jones winked and as he  returned to his seat, I saw a fleeting expression pass over Holmes’ features.

Almost as of pain, which concerned me but the emotion fled as soon as I glimpsed it so I said nothing. Holmes now pulled himself up more and bent his concentration to Jones.

Jones simply smiled at Holmes.

“Yet, when they saw how much assistance he was, they let Watson continue. So the poor man kept healing, placing maggots in the flesh of soldiers and administrating any medicine or stitching away. Continued until he collapsed again from fever and was despaired of. This time when he woke, he was invalided out and sent home to Blighty. I returned to the trenches, but we kept up a correspondence until this very day.”

The admiration and respect from both Jones and Holmes was too much and as ever I was reduced to muttering under my breath, unable to form proper speech. Mortification at least covered my adoration and happiness at Holmes’ praise from earlier.

Holmes however, rescued me. “No objections Watson. It appears that Colonel Jones values you has highly as I do.”

There was an edge to Holmes’ tone I could not decipher and concerned it indicated some realisation of my true sentiments towards him, I looked up. Holmes appeared well though and not angry at me. Again there was that peculiar light in his grey eyes and baffled, I looked over to Jones who seemed amused by some private joke.

“As Watson’s friend, it is reassuring to know that a great and famous detective as yourself holds Watson in the proper regard.”

“I assure you that I do,” said Holmes unnecessarily coldly I thought.

Jones however was not offended and shrugged, eyes bright. Whatever these two were up to, I had had enough for one evening, so I rose stiffly to my feet.

“That is enough for now Holmes. It is late and our journey was a long one. You really ought to rest properly.”

Holmes sighed in resignation. “Very well Watson. Let us go.”

Colonel Jones stood as Holmes did so.

“I apologise for talking so long. Time quite carried me away in the presence of an old friend and his companion.”

“No apology is required,” said Holmes. “I enjoyed hearing about Watson’s service. Come Watson, to bed as you insisted!”

Casting an apologetic look at my friend who merely smirked, I accompanied Holmes up the stairs and to our rooms. We had a bedroom side by side with a connecting door. I left this open as we each saw to our ablutions.

I admit I did so with trembling hands, utterly bewildered by Holmes’ behaviour. Holmes was coldly logical and rational to the world, but I found him to be deeply affectionate to me and a good friend. I liked to feel that Holmes felt comfortable to reveal that side to himself, but there were times when Holmes’ behaviour baffled me outside cases.

Such as now.

Having finished my ablutions, I pulled over my travel case to search for a particular item.

As I rummaged in my bag, I considered the options for Holmes’ abrupt coolness towards Jones, when up to a point this evening he had gotten on quite well with him. Amidst my thoughts I suddenly heard the lovely melody of his violin. Relief poured through my veins.

Whatever the cause, at least Holmes hadn’t sunk into a depressive state. Thus mildly reassured I retrieved my objective and went to him.  

The tall handsome man grinned when he saw me and put aside his violin.

“Watson! Come to ensure I went to bed?”

“Partly yes, but also to give you this.”

“A chocolate bar?”

“You need the extra sustenance Holmes and chocolate will grant you a nice little boost.”

“And a treat?” Holmes chuckled.

“Yes…”

“Oh, I don’t mean to dismiss your gift Watson, but you are fond of chocolate. I thought we agreed that you should keep the greater share of our rations?”

“Not in this situation,” I said firmly. “Be a good man and eat.”

Holmes sighed, but then flashed me a smile. “Very well, I will eat your chocolate tonight, but tomorrow we will share.”

“A deal.”

Holmes slipped into bed with the chocolate bar. “Goodnight Watson.”

“Goodnight Holmes.”

I slipped out to climb into my own bed. I fell swiftly into dreams of two terrible wars and finally of Holmes entering my world, who shone as a bright beacon in my life and who had chased away many of the ghastly ghosts of the past.

* * *

When the next morning dawned after a night of muddled dreams, it found us sitting down to a scrumptious breakfast. However, our peace was shattered when the butler rushed in.

“Sir! There has been a murder at Mr Thomas’ house.”

“Good heavens, a murder? Was it the older or younger Mr Thomas?”

“Neither sir, but their driver Dayton. He disturbed a burglar and was shot through the heart in the struggle to contain him.”

Holmes was avidly listening while my heart was sinking. _Please not another case._

Holmes caught me staring and innocently began buttering his toast.

“What time did this happen?”

“Ten to midnight, sir.”

“A bad business, well I will step over later.”

The butler departed and Jones shook his head. “Terrible thing, but there was that burglary up at old Owen’s estate a week ago. This time the driver must have disturbed the burglar and paid the price for loyalty.”

“Yet, why was he up so late?” mused Holmes, “and why did the burglar choose the Thomas’ abode? Are they wealthy?”

“Yes, as is Mr Owen.”

“What valuables were taken from Mr Owen’s?”

“Nothing of value really, which was the oddest thing. Perhaps the burglar was disturbed or desperate for he simply stole a battered wireless, an old book of Edgar Allen Poe, a ball of woollen thread ready for knitting and a globe paperweight.”

Holmes was fascinated and was fast becoming absorbed in solving this affair so I acted hastily.

“Holmes.”

“Peace Watson, I don’t intend to meddle.”

So saying, Holmes selected jam and spread it on his toast, but had taken only one bite when the butler announced an Inspector Flower. The medium sized fellow was handsome with a strong Cardiff accent.

“Sorry to intrude Colonel Jones, but I heard that Mr Holmes of Baker Street was residing with you.”

The colonel waved to my friend and the inspector said good morning. “We would be grateful if you could perhaps step across and take a look at things for us, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes laughed. “Poor Watson, the world is set against you. Never fear, I shall take it easy. Now my good fellow if we ready ourselves we can first see the body of this unfortunate Mr Dayton.”

The inspector was relieved and said he would wait outside.

As it happened I was ready first and came down to find Jones at the foot of the stairs. He quickly pulled me into the adjoining library.

“I see you and Mr Holmes haven’t made up?” he queried.

“Whatever do you mean?” I was genuinely confused. “I apologise for his peculiar behaviour yesterday. Holmes must be more out of sorts than I realised.”

Jones laughed, amusement plain in his voice. “Oh Watson, you are still a little silly I see. Now don’t rile up like that. Goodness man, Mr Holmes was _jealous_.”

“Jealous? Of…you?”

“Who else? Of course he was Watson. He enjoyed hearing of your exploits, but oh he didn’t like the manner in which I touched you or that we shared some secret. Even though of course, said secret involves concealing your love for him.”

I stood still in shock, hardly able to believe what I was hearing. Holmes jealous? Jealous of my friendship with Jones? Why would he be?

Shocked, I somehow managed to whisper, “He doesn’t suspect…?”

“Our true nature? Watson my fellow, if you only pried past the curtain of your fears and looked just a little deeper at Holmes – without your adoration clouding your vision I might add – you would see that his affection for you is of the most extraordinary kind.”

Jones gripped both my shoulders and stared at me solemnly. “Why, it is of the kind that men like us share with other men, with whom we form strong attachments of love, romantic love that is.”

It was too much. Reeling with the prospect that Holmes loved me in the manner I yearned for, and that I had been too stupid to see it, I wrenched myself free and stumbled. Jones caught and steadied me.

“Don’t be harsh on yourself. I fancy your Mr Holmes is unused to such emotions so hasn’t acted out of concern for your wellbeing and potential fear of losing your friendship. He hasn’t descried the depth of your affection for him yet.”

“But you have?”

“Watson, my friend, I noticed because I know what to look for and because I have the advantage of observing you both without fearing discovery. I am not the one who would lose a friend if I was wrong in my convictions.”

“But Holmes! Why would he be jealous of our friendship? Or love me? When he could have someone with more intelligence and grace. I know I sometimes blunder and cannot speak my thoughts aright and-”

“ _Breathe_ , there is a good chap.”

Jones embraced me fiercely and whispered in my ear, “Ask him Watson, for I know he values you more than you do yourself. You will not lose his esteem or friendship whatever occurs. Be brave as you were all those years ago in the hospital tent and in the years since in every adventure you have shared with your detective. Be courageous and kind, because Mr Holmes hasn’t had much experience in such affairs I think.”

Jones was correct of course, but how would I be able to speak? My words will surely fail me as they ever do in such situations. Miserable, terrified, yet longing for a return of my love I was determined to try at any rate.

Colonel Jones was fallible like all of us, but he had always been most perceptive when it came to matters of the heart. In that moment I decided to be brave for Holmes’ sake and my own.

“I will do as you advise, thank you Jones.”

Releasing me, Jones shrugged. “You saved my life Watson long ago, if I can save you now then I am glad of it.”

Then he was pulling me out of the library and into the hallway to find Holmes waiting. He frowned in displeasure when he saw us together and again that peculiar glint came into his eyes.

“Are you well Watson? Your cheeks are flushed and your breathing is rather faint.”

My friend shot an accusing glare at Colonel Jones who added fuel to the fire, the incorrigible soldier.

“We had an illuminating conversation Mr Holmes.”

“Indeed?” my friend murmured and he closed the distance and slipped an arm through mine. My heart thrilled at this little display, even as my mind was scattered and scrambling to gather my thoughts in the wake of the revelations I had just received.

“Yes, and Watson is eager to share the fruits of our conversation once you have solved the case.”

“Then we must certainly move swiftly,” asserted Holmes. He tugged me to the door, eyes gleaming and face set in the pose I knew well. Holmes would unearth every clue, and deduce all he could to announced the true perpetrator of the crime.

And to do so as swiftly as possible for he set quite a pace to the morgue.

So Holmes was jealous!

I was overjoyed and wished to declare myself now, yet I could do nothing but go along with Holmes.

However, as we hurried to the makeshift morgue I prayed Holmes would not overexert himself in the attempt to solve this mystery, so as to merely to discover what had passed between Jones and me.

* * *

The makeshift morgue was the refrigeration unit of a nearby butcher’s shop which served the small village and estates of the wealthier class.

I had been colder in my life, but it was still unpleasant in the fridge, surrounded by hanging carcasses and cuts of meat. A space had been cleared nearer the back where fortunately there was a side entrance. This was to hopefully reduce the chance of any contamination of the deceased corpse and the meat which had been shifted further forwards.

My examination at Holmes’ bequest had been quick and I was puzzled. Holmes of course, had examined the unfortunate Mr Dayton first and now awaited my judgement. I finished washing my hands and my cleaning my equipment, replacing them in my Gladstone.

Only then did I share my confusion with Holmes and the good Inspector Flower who had been observing with immense interest.

 “Holmes…am I correct in that Mr Thomas the younger reportedly saw the burglar and Mr Dayton fight?”

“Yes old boy, why?”

“Well, there are no powder marks on the clothes. If the gun went off while the men struggled together there should be powder on the dead man’s garments.”

Holmes eyes were sparkling and his pale cheeks had a bloom of colour, as if his vigour had returned with this mystery. Seeing this something occurred to me in that instant.

“You suspected as much didn’t you Holmes?”

“Indeed Watson, for the same reason as you when I saw Mr Dayton’s body. We are being lied to by the young Mr Dayton and possibly the father, but for what reason?”

“Surely you are mistaken!” cried Inspector Flower. “The Thomas family is one of much respectability in these parts. Why, the elder Mr Thomas also saw the burglar escape through the garden and over the hedge.”

“Watson is rarely mistaken in such medical matters,” replied Holmes firmly. “I have also come to the same conclusion. We only have the son’s word that the two men fought closely together and the word of only the elder and younger for the burglar even existing. No, something is peculiar here.”

The Inspector was quiet, but finally sighed in resignation as he obviously realised the truth. “So what now Mr Holmes?”

“You and I will head up to the Thomas estate while Watson...would you like to come or spend time with the Colonel?”

Holmes plucked his pipe from his coat and did not look at me as he said this.

“Nothing can pry me from your side Holmes,” I mumbled. Holmes smiled even though I hadn’t been clear while the Inspector frowned at my apparent ineptness.

Only Holmes’ grin and ushering me out the refrigeration unit kept me from embarrassing myself even more.

* * *

I leave the case behind here for I have recorded the results elsewhere. This account is more concerned with an entirely different outcome. Up until now it had some significance on my changing relations with Holmes, but the conclusion of the case does not, so I must abandon that thread.

Holmes and I had returned triumphantly to Colonel Jones’ home and recounted our deeds, (well Holmes’ mainly), to our amused companion until it was time for lunch. Afterwards, Jones – a friend of great worth – made his excuses and left me to be that spirited man he once knew in a hospital nearly three decades ago.

 Naturally Holmes knew that something was up, for he calmly refilled his pipe with his favourite strong tobacco – the one he favoured for confrontations – and settled onto the couch, patting the seat next to him. Rather nervously I joined him, for while my courage was high so too were my nerves.

_Please let me speak clearly._

My desperate plea to the heavens went unanswered as I tried opening the conversation.

“Holmes, I…I, well that is Jones…”

Despite his stern countenance a gentle expression appeared and Holmes’ features relaxed into a warm regard. His calloused hand rested on my shoulder in a fashion very familiar to me.

“What is it my dear fellow? Whatever it is, you must know I would never think ill of you.”

Holmes dragged in a breath of his pipe, smoke billowing around his cheeks as he exhaled, wreathing him in mystery. Yet, even I heard and saw the pain when he said, “Or of your companion Colonel Jones.”

For a moment I sat relieved then… _oh no_.

“Oh no Holmes! I…we…” I paused to marshal my tongue and enunciated my next words slowly for it was vital Holmes understood me and perceived my intentions without error.

“When I spoke to Jones earlier this morning it was about _us,_ about _you and I_.”

Holmes frowned and ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it the way I always loved it and still leaving a glossy appearance due to the pomade he used.

“Jones was concerned that we hadn’t made up after last night’s conversation.”

“Sorry old boy.”

“No need to apologise Holmes. Admittedly, I was confused by Jones’ sentiment, nothing unusual there.”

“I beg that you do not speak ill of yourself,” interrupted Holmes, “for if you do I will scold you most thoroughly.”

Warmth spread through me and I blushed and had a hard time getting my tongue under control. I succeeded and continued in a strained tone.

“He stated that your peculiar behaviour was due to _jealously_. Jones made it obvious to me that my…affection for you was returned in equal fervour by you Holmes. That is, my indecent love for you, as society terms it, was just as indecent on your part.”

Here I somehow lifted my eyes to Holmes and saw his stunned expression. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape so his pipe hung precariously. His handsome features were now pale under a growing pink flush. The hand on my shoulder convulsed, then clamped down hard.

My soul vibrated with the hopeful beating of my heart and I groped for his spare hand with my own which were trembling and rather mortifyingly, slightly damp with perspiration.

Holmes did not shake his hand free, rather his breathing became faster and he too trembled.

“I love you Sherlock Holmes,” I gasped out, close to a whisper but thankfully audible and each word ringing with clarity.

“I can’t think why you would love me Holmes, but if you do please…please say you will let us take the risk of loving each other.”

Holmes’ hand moved from my shoulder to remove his pipe which he laid on the ash tray on the table next to the couch. He then gripped the back of my neck, forcing me to meet his steely gaze.

“You ask my dear Watson why I would love you? My brother Mycroft wonders as well. Yet it so obvious and that a genius like my brother cannot see it is a tragedy. Colonel Jones understands, which is why I am jealous of him. Why do I love you?” mused Holmes.

He laughed that strong clear laugh of his that I love so well.

“Your good nature and drive to help other humans no matter their status is remarkable. Your indomitable spirit and easy friendship with others is fascinating and admirable. Somehow Watson when you enter a room, people love you and you can gain their trust in moments – all of which have helped us immensely on cases.

“More, around you my dear fellow, those emotions I deplore so much do not seem so terrible a weakness, for without you my life would be so terribly grey. No, don’t speak Watson. Let me explain myself.

“From the very first you have admired my methods, and deemed them worthy of record and print, which I found invigorating. You rather obligingly head into danger at a moment’s notice and relish adventure, much to my delight.

“Oh really Watson, how many times have you aided me on a case, merely by offering your silent support? Or more than once your medical knowledge? Beyond all this, my dear Watson is your compassion towards others and your drive to help people.

“And yes, how you fiercely protect me from all naysayers, despite the fact I haven’t always treated you right and even pretended to be dead.”

Holmes sighed in regret and looked me ruefully.

“Your forgiving nature astounds and humbles me every day Watson. Even when I returned from the grave; acts I know are undeserving of forgiveness. Yet each time I am terribly grateful and relieved that you did forgive me and continued to be my friend.”

“My dear old man,” I rasped, squeezing the hand I held between my own.

Holmes chuckled weakly and inhaling sharply, said softly, “You wonder why? Who couldn’t love you? For all those reasons I love you. I don’t care that you mumble or fumble sometimes, and neither should you. You are a better man than I. Compassionate and truly giving. And certainly braver than I, for it is because of your courage we now declare ourselves.”

I would have protested but Holmes glared at me so I subsided.

“My dear fellow, you are astonished that I am jealous of your old companion Colonel Jones. Of course I am, for I fear that one day Watson, you will have enough and leave me for a better and truly wiser man, who can show you proper appreciation and more affection and respect than my poor self. Colonel Jones, as he made abundantly clear yesterday, is such a man.”

Holmes paused then asked, “So, now you know _why_ Watson and I think we can safely conclude it is no shock that I love and adore you, the real question is why you would love and stay with me. I love and adore you my dear friend.”

I admit that I was crying a little in wonder and joy at Holmes’ admission. The fact that Holmes willingly bared his soul, when he preferred acts instead of words, was a priceless gift. I couldn’t equal it, beyond in my own flustered manner, yet perhaps, after Holmes’ declaration that would be sufficient.

So, through my joy and tangled emotions and aching throat I whispered, “I love you Holmes, because you are _you_. I adore your devotion to justice even when it skirts the law, I love that even though you eschew emotions you find joy in helping others and feel fury at injustice. That your soul is reflected in the music you play on that blasted violin, even when it screeches most appallingly. I love you, because you are my friend even when your own brother is disapproving.”

I swallowed and shrugged unable to say more.

Holmes coughed, trying to hide the wetness that glimmered in his eyes.

“My dear Watson, shall we?”

Then before I could ask what he meant, Holmes leant forward and kissed me. My mind reeled and my body fell towards Holmes, who shook my hands free so he could envelop me in a crushing embrace.

His lips caressed my own, fierce and unrelenting. My mouth opened under his and Holmes invaded me with his tongue.

Heat and pleasure and amidst it all joy, for as in all matters, Holmes was unrelenting and studious in seeking to learn every contour of mouth. The taste of tobacco, of the tea he had drunk at lunch and something uniquely Holmes all at once pervaded my being.

His elegant long fingers stroked my back when suddenly he broke off panting. Breathing shallowly, dazed by Holmes’ passion, I focused languidly on Holmes features, tracing the red cheeks the wet lips and the heat in those grey eyes.

Holmes’ hair beckoned, so I raised my hands to the dark locks to plunge my hands in the silky hair. I thrilled at messing Holmes’ tidy style even more than it already was and my heart’s desire to see it mussed was answered. Holmes’ pomade made his locks silky and wonderful.

His fringe fell onto his glistening forehead and Holmes crooked his eyebrows at me.

“I never knew my hair was such a weakness for you Watson. I wonder what other revelations I will discover?”

He bent down to brush his mouth over my moustache which sent a shiver through me. It was delightful.

His breath tickled my cheeks, nose and forehead as his lips left a trail of desire growing in me. Holmes finally rested his cheek on my head, rubbing against the sensation of my hair.

I left one hand buried in Holmes’ mussed hair and dropped the other to rest on the back of Holmes neck, burying a finger under his collar so I could revel in the hot flesh underneath. Holmes shuddered, yet his hands sought the same and I gasped as long fingers – calloused by hours of violin playing – felt under my collar while the other dipped under my waistcoat to lay flat and burning through my shirt.

We sat like that for what seemed hours, just relishing each other. For my part I was overcome with joy and the sheer awe that Holmes loved me as I loved him, and that this was real and not a fantastic dream.

Holmes weight was steady and reassuring, his breath ruffling my hair and his cheek hot on my scalp. His embrace was pleasurable to sink into and just _not to think or worry about saying the wrong thing or Holmes disapproving at a glance from me that was more than friendship_ was such a relief that I was quite dazed.

Wallowing in this bliss I could even ignore to an extent my arousal that was tight in my trousers.

Eventually a knock on the door recalled us to our senses and parting I saw Holmes’ smirk and raised eyebrow when he espied my predicament.

“Sorry old chap,” I whispered ashamed.

Holmes rolled his eyes. “None of that Watson, for I am quite gratified by your reaction and I hope you are by mine.”

What did..? _Oh._ I looked down and Holmes was also indecent. Well that made me a little smug if embarrassed for now Jones was calling.

“Watson? Mr Holmes? I hate to disturb you, but I just learnt my nephew is visiting for tea. I thought it best to warn you both so you had plenty of time to prepare.”

“You have a very wise friend Watson and maybe some day I shan’t be jealous of him.”

“Holmes!” I hissed as I hurried to make myself presentable as my, (and he was now truly mine) – detective righted himself and strolled to the door. By the time he opened it I was presentable while Holmes as usual was his well-attired self.

Jones took us in with one sweep of his eyes and grinned widely. Leaning against the door he remarked causally, “I am glad you cleared up that little confusion from before.”

A steely glint entered his eyes and I saw plainly the soldier from all those years ago, straight and tall with utter serenity and confidence eclipsing him.

“Now Mr Holmes I expect Watson to be treated justly – no more disappearing acts otherwise upon your next return, you will discover that the good doctor has been whisked away to wonderful wild Wales. Understood?”

“Indeed I do. I trust you are also sympathetic if I steal most of Watson’s time this evening while you entertain your nephew?”

“My sympathies are with you gentlemen. I had been debating showing my nephew the pond after supper for the moon is nice and bright tonight, and it is perfectly natural for my guests to decide that family deserve some private time together. Particularly when my ill guest is still recovering. This all depends however, on whether we have an accord?”

“I believe we comprehend each other quite plainly Colonel Jones. We have an accord.”

It was quite a vision witnessing two men, so confident in themselves, facing off over me. Still, I had also been a soldier and rising I succeeded in limping over to put an end to this stand-off. We weren’t in a Western nor facing one of our criminal foes, so really, we could do without the posturing.

“If you have both finished, then this doctor would like to continue treating their patient to ensure an efficient and fully realised recovery.”

Holmes’ eyes glittered as he laughed again and I endeavoured to ensure he would continue laughing during the years ahead we now had as lovers.

“We have been scolded Colonel Jones. If I know my Watson, we are in danger of being glared into submission so we best beat a hasty retreat.”

Jones smiled and winked at me. “I concur, a wise soldier – or detective – knows when battle is useless.”

They were equally impossible. What had I done by introducing them?

Shaking my head at their antics I decided to go ahead to freshen up, yet as they parted to allow me passage, Jones gripped my hand.

Holmes thankfully held back to give us our privacy.

“I am happy for you Watson, but I was serious when I said to Mr Holmes that there is a place for you in my home if ever needed.”

All I could say through my abruptly tight throat was a hoarse “thank you”, which fortunately conveyed all I meant. For without Colonel Jones, Holmes and I wouldn’t have each other and my gratitude was endless. Even when they were indicating that as allies they would be dreadful influences on each other.

“Then Captain Watson,” said Jones gruffly, “all that remains is for me to whole-heartedly wish you both many years of happiness.”

He released me and stood aside. Holmes came up beside me, offering my walking stick and his arm. In the hall we had to replace our masks, but once in our rooms Holmes’ expression said everything.

We had to prepare for the arrival of Jones’ nephew, but before we did Holmes and I kissed once more.

“To the rest of our lives,” Holmes murmured and held me close.

I nodded, smiling as the movement caused Holmes to twitch at the feeling of my moustache against his cheek.

* * *

So, now I must close on this adventure which brought about the happiest period of my life.

Even now, as we dwell in the beautiful green Sussex downs with the sea crashing upon the shore, I still recall our visit to my friend Colonel Jones with the greatest fondness.

Sherlock has found peace with Jones and the two are now grand friends whenever the Colonel comes to visit. In fact, the two of them are at this instant at Sherlock’s bee hives. The two are like small boys in their excitement over the various methods of beekeeping.

I prefer observing from a safe distance while reading the latest medical journals. Considering retirement had merely slowed Sherlock down instead of completely dismissing his work, I kept myself abreast of medical advances and treatments just in case.

Therefore, I shall put aside my pen, so I can blot the ink before carefully concealing the manuscript, (you will appreciate that I will not say where), and join the two most treasured men in my life…with Sherlock being the most precious.

If I am fortunate, I might even steal a kiss through the ridiculous beekeeping outfit he wears.

_~ Fins ~_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, rae_fa, for checking!


End file.
